So much had changed over time, but the core remained the same.
Beauvoir thought about the question Bernice Ogilvy had asked. Did he love his job? The answer, he knew for certain, was yes. And it wasn’t just his job he loved.
Chief Superintendent Gamache sat back, a look of extreme concentration on his face. Then he brought a notebook out of his breast pocket.
“This came in last night,” he said. “From Kontrollinspektor Gund in Vienna. I’d asked him to look up that original will.”
“The one going back a hundred years,” said Isabelle.
“A hundred and thirty. Baron Kinderoth, Shlomo, had two sons, twins,” Gamache reminded them. “He left them each the entirety of his estate. We’ll probably never know why he did it, but we can see the effect it had. It clearly caused hurt and confusion. Who inherited? I asked the Kontrollinspektor if he could do some searching through their records. This’s what he sent back.”
He put on his glasses while Beauvoir and Lacoste leaned closer.
“I won’t read it verbatim,” said Gamache. “My translation is pretty bad, but I think I got the gist of it. I’ve sent it on to an acquaintance who does speak German, but in the meantime this’ll have to do. Both sons took it to court, of course, and after a few years it was decided in favor of one son, the one deemed the firstborn of the twins. By then both men had themselves died, and the heirs of the other son contested the decision. Because of the complexity and confusion over who was really firstborn, the case lingered. It took another few years to be heard and another few years for a decision. This time it was in favor of the supposed younger son. He worked in the family firm, and the first seems to have been, in the words of the court, a rotter.”
“How long out from Shlomo Kinderoth’s death did this happen?” asked Lacoste.
“That decision for the younger son, and now his heirs, was thirty years after Shlomo’s death. Again the family of the older son contested the decision.”
“And the money?” asked Beauvoir.
“It remained in trust,” said Gamache. “Growing, but not dispersed.”
Lacoste did a quick calculation. “Thirty years. That would put that decision around 1915.”
“Exactly,” said Gamache. “World War One. According to records the Kontrollinspektor found, much of the family was killed, at least the young men. Austria was in turmoil. It wasn’t until the 1930s that the family took another run at it. By then the descendants of one of the sons had become Baumgartners, through marriage. And had since moved to Canada. Montréal. The Kinderoths stayed in Austria.”
“Oh dear,” said Lacoste.
“Oui,” said Gamache. “All I have are the court records. That’s all I asked for, and I’m not sure if more detailed accounts are possible, but it does seem that at least one Kinderoth survived the Nazis and came to Montréal after the war. There might be others still in Europe somewhere. Kontrollinspektor Gund is looking.”
“Why Canada?” asked Beauvoir.
“Not just Canada,” Lacoste pointed out, “but Montréal.”
“Where the Baumgartners had settled,” said Gamache. “It cannot be a coincidence.”
“Were they looking for family?” asked Lacoste. “After what happened, maybe distant and even unpleasant family was better than none. It might be instinctive.”
“It’s possible,” said Gamache. “But I think by then their instincts had warped and something else motivated them. Shortly after the war ended, another petition was filed in the Austrian courts. For the Kinderoth fortune.”
“My God,” said Lacoste. “Don’t they ever give up?”
“Was there even a fortune left?” asked Beauvoir.
“I doubt it,” said Gamache, “but they wouldn’t know that. I think they were still going on family lore.”
“Or maybe they knew something the authorities didn’t,” said Lacoste. “Some Jewish families managed to convert their money into art, or jewelry, or gold, didn’t they? And then hid it or smuggled it out of the country.”
“Yes,” said Gamache. “But neither the Kinderoths nor the Baumgartners could get at the money. It was held in trust. And the Nazi regime would’ve confiscated it. Stolen it.”
“So they’ve been fighting over nothing?” asked Beauvoir. “All these years?”
“Nothing tangible anyway,” said Gamache. “But who knows? It was there once, so I suppose there’s a possibility—”
He left it hanging.
“And now?” asked Lacoste, looking down at the notebook and the careful writing there.
“And now, according to Kontrollinspektor Gund, a final decision is about to come down in the Austrian courts.”
“When?” asked Beauvoir.
“Anytime now. According to Gund, it’s been expected for a year or so, but there’s a backlog, of course, of lawsuits dating from the war. They’re getting through them slowly.”
“This slowly?” asked Beauvoir. “Most of the people who brought them would be long dead.”
“Their descendants would benefit,” said Gamache. “And the Austrians want to be very careful. To be as fair as possible, especially about anything to do with the Jewish population and what was stolen. They can’t, of course, undo the Holocaust, but they can try to make reparations.”
“Why don’t the Kinderoths and Baumgartners just decide to divide it equally?” asked Lacoste. “This would’ve been settled generations ago.”
“Maybe you want to suggest it to them,” said Jean-Guy, and he got a glare from Isabelle.
“Up until now it’s been unpleasant but civil,” said Isabelle. “Do we really think Anthony Baumgartner’s death—”
“And maybe his mother’s,” said Beauvoir. “She died suddenly and then was cremated.”
“Oui,” said Lacoste. “Okay. Maybe the Baroness too. But do we really think they were murdered because of a century-old will?”
“One that was about to be settled,” said Gamache.
“And contested again,” said Beauvoir.
“Non. The courts have said they won’t tolerate another appeal. They have too many old cases to go through to keep retrying the same one.”
“So whoever wins could inherit a fortune,” said Lacoste.
“Real or imagined,” said Gamache. And this seemed, he thought, a family rich in imagination. Clinging on to the myth of aristocracy and power and wealth, even as they drove cabs and cleaned toilets.
Beauvoir shook his head.
Why kill Anthony Baumgartner now? Did they think Caroline and Hugo had murdered their brother for a larger stake in a fictional inheritance?
He’d met these people. They seemed intelligent. And no intelligent person would believe in the fairy tale of an old fortune that had somehow survived wars and pogroms and the Holocaust to come to them now.
And suppose the other arm of the family won? The Kinderoths? What then? A fratricide for nothing?
The three of them stared into space. Thinking. Trying to see through the tangle of time and motives.
Gamache looked at his watch. He was meeting Benedict in downtown Montréal in twenty minutes. He’d have to be leaving soon to make the rendezvous.
“And there’s still the issue of the liquidators of Madame Baumgartner’s will,” he said.
“Very suspicious lot,” Beauvoir said to Lacoste, who nodded agreement.
Gamache smiled patiently. “We don’t know why Myrna and I were on it, but we at least have some connection through Three Pines, where the Baroness worked. But are we any closer to knowing why Benedict was a liquidator?”
“Not at all,” said Lacoste, who’d been charged with finding out. “There seems absolutely no connection. He never worked in the area. He never met her. How Madame Baumgartner even knew he existed, never mind trusted him enough to put him on the will, is a mystery.”
“Dead end?” asked Beauvoir, needling her.
“Never,” said Lacoste. “There’s a reason, and I’ll find it. I plan on speaking with his ex. This Katie might know something or remember something he’d forgotten. I’ve never met him, but by your description Benedict does seem pretty scatterbrained.”